


Lucky Seven (Pharmercy Week 2017)

by xel



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: (Day 3 is a traditional drawing because I didn't have time to write...), F/F, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-24 14:59:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9767213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xel/pseuds/xel
Summary: Seven works for pharmercy week 2017.Day 1. Prompt: Valentine's Day“Let’s … not fall in love, Angela.”It’s so light, somewhat humorous, because the truth of it is: it has already passed. And because the truth of it is: they shouldn’t. And because the truth of it is: right now? It is not wise to admit to anything.Right now is the perfect time to pretend.“Okay,” Angela says, smiles, sips from her glass. “Let’s not.” a pause, “and Fareeha, let’s not make promises to one another.”





	1. Day 1 - Valentine's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Valentine's Day date!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 1! Here we go~

Fareeha and Angela are standing under a streetlamp on a deserted side street just off the main stretch - foot traffic echoing off the brick buildings around them. Fareeha’s got a cut on her cheek that makes it swell a bit, some bruises on her left arm from taking a bat to it. Angela’s got a sizeable cut on the opposite arm, some scrapes on her knees - nothing too serious. Angela’s smart, and agile, and it’ll take more than a couple of bandits and a flash bomb to put her out of commission. 

All the same, Fareeha pulls a bandage out of the utility pack around her thigh. Angela smiles when she asks to clean the cut. And so Fareeha does, gently, places the bandage on it; runs her thumb over it once to smooth it down, and then retraces it backwards for slightly more selfish reasons.

“Thank you,” says Angela, and the smile is steady. Fareeha returns it faintly.

“I am happy to band- ** _aid_** ,” she says, grinning at her own joke. Angela chuckles lightly, sighs, shakes her head.

“Do you never run out of puns?”

“I reuse them sometimes,” says Fareeha, falling back into a smile, she casts a gaze at the two assailants unconscious on the ground. Their mission had been to collect information on an anti-Omnic weapons dealer, it was a happy coincidence that they had tracked these two down - happier still that they could now be interrogated. Angela, ever the pacifist, had been slightly less pleased about the scuffle in the alley. But then, had told Fareeha once, that bystanding was its own sort of violence, and so she fights. Fareeha admires that in the doctor, would like to learn something like it for herself. Though they may always be a bit different in this regard. A bit more brash, a bit more violent. Right reasons or not. Fareeha finds warmth in Angela’s eyes as Angela waits for her to finish the sentence she started. “I did not consider myself fluent in English until I made my first pun,” Fareeha tells her, there is a lightness in her voice now, which Angela does not miss.

“It’s a point of pride?” Angela guesses and seems to find something more in Fareeha, by the way her whole face seems to soften all at once.

“Yes,” Fareeha confesses.

“That’s adorable,” Angela tells her. Fareeha laughs, shakes her head, feels a little embarrassed by the praise.

“We should report back to the safe house,” Fareeha says, “before they wake up.” Angela hums an affirmative, but when Fareeha turns to drag the men to their vehicle, Angela reaches for her bicep and draws her attention back.

“Let’s go to dinner tonight, Fareeha,” she says, and catches Fareeha totally off guard, “we’ll be back at the watchpoint tomorrow. It will be nice to see the city tonight.”

Fareeha has no qualms, really. It’s just - in the year they’ve worked together, found each other in the kitchen in the early morning, on the knoll behind the training grounds, on the battlefield - there has always been a very unspoken aspect to it all. A silent recognition of something they both seek and find in one another.

“Alright,” Fareeha says. “It is a date.”

Angela smiles so sincerely the whole street seems to brighten.

 

* * *

 

They return to the safe house just long enough to throw the two bandits in a holding cell, to change out of their tactical wear into more casual wear - perhaps too casual. Fareeha only has jeans and a workout shirt. Angela is wearing capris and the shirt she’s been sleeping in; it is several sizes too big.

And then they are off.

 

* * *

 

Angela knows London, has worked here during her career and has visited a number of times independent of work. Fareeha walks beside her, hands in her pockets, and lets her lead the way to wherever they are going. It is nice not to think about much. It is also fairly rare. Even rarer that she gets to experience this with Angela.

Fareeha had forgotten up until the first shop window they passed that today is Valentine’s Day, and she mildly considers buying a dessert for them at dinner for it. Fareeha has always liked the day, in a relationship or without - it makes for good people watching, sometimes a pleasant kind of melancholy. Today feels significant, too; she is not dating Angela, has not dated anyone since she devoted her life to this lifestyle, unfit (it seems to her) to bring other people into. Selfish, maybe…  
“I like that everything becomes slightly more red,” Angela tells her.

“Hmm?” Fareeha responds, dragged out of her thoughts.

“On Valentine’s,” Angela tells her, looks at her slyly as if she has more to say but has decided against it.

“Oh - yes,” Fareeha responds lamely. A few minutes later Angela veers into a restaurant and Fareeha follows.

They must make quite the pair, battered and underdressed. If Fareeha had to guess, she’d say they look pretty rough. The man at the stand before them flicks his eyes over them, not in judgment, but in genuine confusion.

“Table for two,” Angela tells him. He nods, grabs a couple of menus and leads them out to a table in the back by a window where they can watch the foot traffic, and the foot traffic can watch them.

Fareeha admires the heart doilies on the tables, the candles which rest atop them. Fareeha admires the slope of Angela’s neck into her shoulders, the curve of her spine, the way her hair looks let down, and then flicks her eyes up and admires the lights fixtures, bright and hanging like glasses upside down. The heat of the place, the close quarters to other tables, makes her warm.

When they sit, they sit across from one another, Angela smiles and Fareeha laughs and feels a little foolish and out of place amongst the well dressed patrons and their spouses, partners. The happy chatter, the warm smell of fresh bread. The waiters, dressed in black, rush past with full platters and a finesse Fareeha has never perfected. Not even in her time as a waitress herself.

“Are you alright?” Angela asks her, looks hard at her for a moment, and then picks up a menu. Fareeha follows suit though she knows Angela is listening and expects a response.

“I forgot about all of this,” Fareeha confesses, and studies the menu, “I have not been out to eat in months. My squad and I went for drinks, but it isn’t the same.”

“Not quite,” Angela agrees, “do you want to leave?” Fareeha looks at her, she looks a tad concerned and Fareeha is stuck by the compassion of it. She smiles.

“No, it’s not discomfort,” Fareeha tells her, “and you are never poor company.” Angela outright laughs.

“I am glad to hear it,” she says.

It’s … so pleasantly warm.

 

* * *

 

Anglea is aware of the history between them, just as Fareeha is. Perhaps better, since Angela has talked extensively with Ana about her daughter, and Fareeha has only ever been talked at by the older Amari.

Angela often thinks about falling asleep against Fareeha’s shoulder, thinks about the fear that grips her each time Fareeha’s vitals flash a warning on the battlefield. She thinks about the heat in her neck, her ears, the flip in her stomach and she is not naive - neither of them are. They’ve talked about it.

So Angela can only laugh when Fareeha, four glasses of wine later, picking at bread and long since done with her dinner says, somewhat sheepishly:

“Let’s … not fall in love, Angela.”

It’s so light, some what humorous, because the truth of it is: it has already passed. And because the truth of it is: they shouldn’t. And because the truth of it is: right now? It is not wise to admit to anything.

Right now is the perfect time to pretend.

“Okay,” Angela says, smiles, sips from her glass. “Let’s not.” a pause, “and Fareeha, let’s not make promises to one another.”

“Let’s not kiss and hug.”

Angela laughs says:

“Let’s not search each other out.” (and thinks of how she does, finds Fareeha in the armoury, the library.)

“Let’s not-” Fareeha stops, stutters, Angela finds herself leaning forward, in anticipation of this game they play now. Where they pretend. “let’s not get married - one day,” Fareeha says, rushed, “Let’s not adopt a dog, and plant things we have to fight rabbits to keep.”

Angela can see it: she pictures Switzerland - because she misses it, a small house in the mountains. A dog in the front yard. A world at peace. She sees it all so clearly. Her eyes get misty. She sees it all so clearly.

“Let’s not torture ourselves,” she says, lightly, and Fareeha back pedals. Grabs her glass and smiles even so.

“Sorry,” Fareeha says, a little guilty. Angela smiles, reaches across the table and cups Fareeha’s face, runs her thumb over the tattoo under her eye. Watches the way Fareeha watches her - questioning, still.

“Let’s fall in love, Fareeha,” she tells her, “just not yet.”

“Alright,” Fareeha says, softly. Angela withdraws her hand with a smile; memorizes that house, the dog, the rabbits, even; Fareeha, there, gardening, or reading, or sleeping, or all of these things and more.

They have a war to fight. But they won’t always.

“Valentine’s day special!” Their server announces, breaking Angela’s reverie. He sets down a large heart-shaped cookie for them. Angela laughs and Fareeha covers her face with her hand briefly to hide a chuckle and it is all very surreal and very wonderful, and very not permanent - not yet - one day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On a scale of 1-10 ... how obvious is it that I didn't read over this? At all....
> 
> Anyways leave comments and kudos if you'd like - I'm always happy to get them!


	2. Day 2: Heroes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pharah gets a pleasant surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ... could not make myself write today. For that reason, this is 300 words long. I am sorry ... on the plus side, it is very fluffy!
> 
> I may come back and try to write more and add on. I had ideas, I just. I couldn't focus. :')

“It’s a good photo,” Angela notes, somewhat playfully. She blinks, catches Fareeha out of her peripheral. She’s smirking faintly. Fareeha’s still in a bit of shock, who could blame her? In all her time, in all these years of wishing and climbing and excelling to get here - to become part of Overwatch - she never once really considered herself a hero.

And yet there she is, in full armor, on a billboard in Athens. _The World Could Always Use More Heroes!_ In large yellow font. Others are photo-shopped behind her - Angela, staff in hand, flies in profile somewhere off the sign, out into the world. To do good. The true hero.

“A really good photo,” Angela says, a little more devious, “don’t you look for all the world like the loveliest lady alive.”

“Angela!” Fareeha chokes, and is half way to blushing, which only makes her feel warmer in the summer sun.

Angela laughs and the sound is bright and free and yellow Fareeha thinks, not quite knowing what she means by it.

Angela’s dressed for summer, but it leaves her shoulders bare and red, freckles splattered across her skin. Fareeha maps them to keep from looking into Angela’s eyes, full of teasing mirth. When she feels in control again, her eyes flicker up to Angela’s and she grins.

“They should have put you front and center; as the true hero … and as the most beautiful operative.”

“Are you trying to out compliment me?” Angela asks, teasingly, laces her arm through Fareeha’s and pulls her forward; on towards the museum on the history of medicine - Angela’s choice as part of their two free days before returning to Gibraltar.

“Always,” Fareeha says, chuckles a little, “but as our doctor, our anchor in rough waters, and our angel of mercy, I stand by my opinion.”

“Oh you’re good,” Angela says, winks. A pause: “No matter who gets the centerfold - you _are_ my hero, Fareeha.” 


	3. Day 3: Flowers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't have time to write so I drew today's prompt instead. Sorry I'm bad at art. (I'm embarrassed at how long this still took me...)
> 
> I'll pick back up on fanfiction tomorrow ... because I'm clearly marginally better there.

**Pharmercy Appreciation Week - Day 3: Flowers**

 

> _[I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be.](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DDqoVhwMDoK4&t=NDMxNDkwZTAyMDFkNmUyZWEwMjQyZmVkNDUwZDJlNDlkNDU2MjAzYSxzbkxacE44Sw%3D%3D&b=t%3A8UIUnAg6H_ZjL_NDDVliUw&p=http%3A%2F%2Foverbearingwatch.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F157340112197%2Fpharmercy-appreciation-week-day-3-flowersi&m=1) Right in Front of me. Talk some sense to me._
> 
>  

__

__


	4. Day 4 - Hurt/Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fareeha finds ways to deal with depression.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 4 ... I'm all messed up with order ^^;
> 
> Anyway this is pretty introspective.

It is, at times, the only thing Fareeha can think of. Left to her own devices, in idle moments, it feels like the person that Fareeha is, is synonymous with the deteriorating state of her mind - the way she muddles through her own memories; there are gaps of minutes, hours, days, where she does not recall having done or said anything at all.

She cannot live this way forever, cannot will it out of her; apart from her.

When Angela advises she seek counseling, Fareeha denies ardently - these things must be reported on her record and what will the world think if it turns out she is deemed unfit to serve? What will she become in the absence of activity; consumed by the gray haze of life, the act of waning through it.

Fareeha wakes up some days and prays that the next she will not. Fareeha wakes up other days and prays that part of her which wishes such things will never grow, never act upon her own ideals. There is so much in the world she has yet to see; a peaceful horizon she is reaching for, always reaching further for.

She imagines a dark room, and pixel pricks of light like stars, each one a smile, a laugh, a moment in a day where she was happy, in love, pleased and proud - but they are not the state of the room, only moments in it. And they produce light but they do not illuminate. Is this life? A dark room full of moments of twinkling light, never quite enough…

Fareeha punches the sandbag in front of her, feels the skin of her knuckles split under the wrap of her hand; in her rush to be here, to release something, to feel something, she had been careless - done it improperly. She bites her cheek to stop from yelling in pain. And leans forward instead, her forehead pressed against the nylon bag, her eyes well up and she blinks until the water falls away. She will not cry for this; this which is not sorrow and not pity and not pain.

She should have gone running. The rush of the air, the heavy breathing and tenseness of muscles consumes everything, in time, even depression.

She should have gone to Angela - yellow and orange and radiant - always so eager to help, so willing to be the pillar around which their group is founded.

She should have gone to a psychiatrist when she was younger and angry, always so angry with the world and her mother; later, with herself.

… she should have saved those people in Bangladesh, in Holland, in Peru.

In Egypt, she should have saved herself and talked, even once, to someone.

The thoughts consume her now; the room is black, dark matter, creeping in at the corners. At the corners of her eyes it creeps in again and maybe she cries this time, and maybe she sobs and heaves and hates herself and her life when she sinks to her knees.

And maybe this is how Angela finds her… this is how Angela finds her.

This is how Angela helps her.

“You cannot do this, Fareeha,” she says, softly, and Fareeha does not have the heart to look at her when she feels so less than regal, so less than the protector on which she has based her life. “You cannot shut us all out like this, you only hurt yourself.”

“I am fine, Angela,” Fareeha tells her, and it leaves a lot to be desired behind the heaving, ragged breathing of restraint.

“No,” Angela says, and there’s steel in her voice which is not cold, “you’re not fine.”

No, Fareeha agrees, she’s not fine. And so she does what she has avoided doing since all those years ago, when her mother asked, and Fareeha turned away instead. This time, she doesn’t turn away. This time she drags Angela to her and hold her close and breathes, and focuses, she’s so good at staying focused, not on the darkness, but the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't know what to write for hurt/comfort ... but I've kind of been toying with the idea of Pharah dealing with depression for awhile. It may have come up briefly in some previous fics.


	5. Day 6: Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lena and Emily get married; Angela asks Fareeha to be her date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I understand that chapters 4&5 are missing but those will come I PROMISE ... this weekend was just busy. I'll get back to them. I'm going to finish this dammit >:|

Lena announces her wedding date a year before it happens. She and Emily are ecstatic, in love, totally and completely happy. Angela’s happy for them, too. Happier still when she goes to the bachelorette party a month out (both of them) - ridiculously happy to drag a drunken Farreha home after one, and then to have been escorted home drunkenly at the other by the same woman.

A week out and Emily calls her to go to lunch and Angela accepts willingly. Sitting across from the red head, sipping coffee after her meal Emily finally leans forward and, looking almost too serious says:

“So have you asked Fareeha to be your date yet?”

 

* * *

 

 

Angela chokes on her coffee and it burns all the way down. She sets the cup down, dabs at her mouth with the white cloth of her napkin.

“Not yet,” she says. Emily leans back in her chair.

“You’re running out of time, love.”

Of course, Angela knows - is achingly aware of every day that passes where she does not corner Fareeha in a hallway somewhere and ask her to be her plus one.

With Overwatch’s reinstatement and Fareeha’s promotion and her own work now funded and sanctioned, the time just never seems right. They are never in the same place at the same time for more than a midnight snack, a midnight movie during which one of the invariably falls asleep (usually Fareeha, her head falling into Angela’s lap, or her shoulder) - they try to keep it casual, still, and fail. (Too late, she knows, every time she nondescriptly reaches for Fareeha’s hand, to hold it, and the other woman does not pull away.)

“We’re busy,” Angela says.

“Not that busy,” Emily laughs, “Lena tells me you talk every chance you get. She says it’s distracting for the whole team.”

“Lena is nosy and loves gossip,” Angela says, with jesting disdain. Emily laughs again.

“Isn’t she great?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Strike commander,” Angela calls, grinning, catching Fareeha as she’s leaving the gym. Her shirt is wet with sweat and her hair is slick and pulled back. Angela has always thought she looked good in a ponytail so she takes a moment to admire it. Fareeha grins at her as she turns and catches Angela’s eye.

“Hello doctor,” she almost purrs. Angela rolls her eyes but it is a fond gesture. Fareeha is beautiful in a hundred different capacities and when she flirts, Angela’s insides twist up pleasantly. Fareeha is, by nature, a huge dork and her flirtations miss the mark more often than not, but when they hit … they hit hard.

“Do you have a moment?” Angela asks.

“If you don’t mind the smell,” Fareeha says, sheepishly, and gestures to herself.

“For you, I’ll manage,” Angela says, winks.

“You are a true martyr,” Fareeha laughs, and comes toward her.

“Lena and Emily get married Saturday,” Angela begins. Fareeha nods in confirmation.

“I forget it is so close. I feel like we have not stopped moving since their engagement.”

It is true they have been, literally, all over the world in the past year. Fareeha has been attending UN meetings on the regular. Her command has made her much more political - she tells Angela she hates it, and yet she goes because she loves Overwatch and believes in their cause. Angela has been presenting at conferences and attends conventions where the brightest minds of the age discuss their work. The year has flown by. Angela hums.

“How would you like to have one of the finest doctors in the world as your date?” Angela says, pleasantly. Fareeha laughs, crosses her arms, leans casually on the wall to her side.

“I thought you might never ask,” she says.

“You could have asked first,” Angela points out. Fareeha leans forward, in the quiet privacy of the hallway Angela allows herself to feel the joy she does. Fareeha places a kiss on her cheek and the skin there burns. Angela does not often blush, but she does feel her ears light up.

“I did,” Fareeha says with a chuckle, “after Emily’s bachelorette party. You said yes, and then you passed out and then you never mentioned it.”

Angela has no words, luckily Fareeha doesn’t need them.  


“I will gladly be arm candy for the finest doctor in the world,” Fareeha laughs. Angela thinks it’s ridiculous that anyone would see them as anything other than the ultimate power couple in any situation where they showed up together, but laughs just the same, mesmerized by the mirth in Fareeha’s face and the curve of her lips.

“Oi!” Lena yells, blinking into view, “get a room, lovebirds,” and then she blinks away and is, just like the moment, gone.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Angela wears a tux, a silk red tie, three inch stilettos.

Fareeha wears a floor length blue satin dress, the color of the water around the Amalfi coast, her hair is up and intricate, her arms are exposed as is a large portion of her back. Angela sees the geometrical lines of the tattoos in both those place, the cut of her muscles, the scars she’s incurred. Angela sees the radiance of her smile, the glow of her dark eyes, the way she watches Angela watch her, and Angela is not so sure she can function as a rational human being. She’s not entirely sure if she is breathing. She _is_ reasonably sure that somewhere along the way, she has fallen in love with Fareeha Amari.

“Shall we?” Fareeha asks, extends her hand. Angela smiles prettily, her lips bright red, takes the offered hand and off they go.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Lena and Emily get married. They kiss, they hug, they give speeches at the reception; so do Emily’s parents and Lena’s Winston. Reinhardt cries. Ana pats him affectionately on the back and sips from her champagne flute.

Gabriel Reyes shows up for ten minutes because he is a sentimental man, but these people ostracized him in the past and he has not completely forgiven them. He says hello to Ana, hugs Fareeha, leaves Sombra behind when he departs. Jack goes with him, though he shows up again later.

Amélie Lacroix does not attend (despite the personal invitation from Lena and a subsequent trip to Paris when it was returned to sender). Angela knows why. So does Lena.

Angela holds Fareeha in her arms under the fairylights and the full moon, swaying to the music provided by Lúcio. (At a standing table in her view over Fareeha’s shoulder, she can see Ana watching them with a practiced neutrality.)

“They’re a good couple,” Angela says, not really interested in holding a conversation, more interested in holding the moment. Fareeha’s lips are pressed into the nape of her neck, she’s had a bit to drink and she might be a little tipsy, but she is also warm and happy and she has smiled most of the night, which Angela is so ardently pleased about.

“Yes,” Fareeha agrees and her breath tickles Angela’s skin, sending goosebumps down her arms, “so are we,” she adds. Angela laughs softly.

“I agree.”

“Maybe we should get married, too,” Fareeha says. Angela freezes, stops dancing, pulls back to look Fareeha head on. She’s smiling but the way it doesn’t quite reveal her dimples lets Angela know it’s a nervous one.

“I …” Angela begins, stops, laughs softly and looks down at their feet, parallel and facing only each other, “I like the sound of that,” she admits. Angela has never seen a look of such pure and unhindered joy on Fareeha Amari’s face.

If she saw it for the rest of her life … that would not be so bad at all.


End file.
